


Pretending You Ain't Been On My Mind

by overratedantihero



Category: Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, M/M, Metropolis Fashion Week, Pining, Requited Affection, Rude Use of Beauty Blender, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 02:17:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15233190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overratedantihero/pseuds/overratedantihero
Summary: Jason's plan to slip Dick into Metropolis Fashion Week seems a little half-cocked, but Dick's going with it. Based on this post: https://pentapoda.tumblr.com/post/172414281558/whats-your-favorite-headcanon-for-jaydick





	Pretending You Ain't Been On My Mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pentapus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus/gifts).



> I literally ripped this idea from one of Pentapoda's Tumblr posts (forgive me!)

Based on [this](https://pentapoda.tumblr.com/post/172414281558/whats-your-favorite-headcanon-for-jaydick) post. 

 

“Jason, just _please_ listen to me—” Dick pleaded, not for the first time. And not for the first time, Jason shut him up. This time by shoving a Beauty Blender in his mouth.

“No time for sanctimony, Dickiebird. I have lead on this one, and you agreed to play by my rules,” Jason murmured, dabbing concealer under Dick’s eyes and plucking the Beauty Blender from Dick’s mouth to blend it. Dick sputtered and stuck his tongue out.

“Jay, that tasted awful!”

Jason bit back a smirk and then dampened a brush with setting spray before tapping the bristles into a pot of glitter. “No shit, Sherlock. It’s foundation. External use only.” Jason dusted the slope of Dick’s cheekbones and the tip of his nose with the glitter. Dick watched the brush warily, in lieu of further complaints. But when Jason set the brush down and then set to work on Dick’s eyebrows, Dick’s mouth opened as if it’d never closed.

“I’m not kidding, I don’t think you understand how half-cocked this plan is!” Dick hissed, not bothering to lower his voice. There was a bustle of activity all around them, models, makeup artists, and designers frantically scampering across the concrete floor. A willowy model, with a waist so narrow Dick swore Jason could wrap his hand around it, sauntered behind Jason. Dick met her gaze and she paused. She measured him up and down and then smirked, spiteful glee brighter than her Estee Lauder highlighter. Dick narrowed his eyes as she clicked away in her towering heels.

Clearly, Jason didn’t see the exchange because he retorted, “I’ve been running my own operations ever since I slipped out of those little green panties, which is more than you can say.”

Dick’s teeth clicked with how quickly he snapped his mouth closed. An ugly flare snaked up Dick’s gut at the reminder of Bruce’s subversion of the Outlaws. Jason sat back, either admiring his handiwork regarding Dick’s makeup or Dick’s clenched jaw. Dick couldn’t tell.

“Chin up, Big Bird,” Jason smirked. “You’re going to crease if you don’t let the powder set.”

“This isn’t Gotham,” Dick murmured lowly. “I cannot blend in with these models. We’re going to get burned before you can even sight the target.”

Jason furrowed his brows. This close, and in the bright white lighting of the room, Dick could see the smattering of freckles across Jason’s nose and cheekbones. He couldn’t remember if Jason has always had those freckles, or if he’d developed them with age (after he’d returned.) Regardless, Dick knew for a fact that they’d grown darker outside of Gotham, under the bright Metropolis sun that they’d enjoyed for the past week. An entire week of preparation, about to be blown trying to extract a model turned international arms dealer just because Jason inexplicably thought Dick could mingle with nationally famous talent.

“Dick, I’ve already sighted her. Check your two.”

Dick’s eyes flicked to the right. There, Willow Skinny Waist spoke in a man’s ear. If you could call him a man; he was built like a brick house. Likely her bodyguard. Or her go between. Certainly not the buyer, she wouldn’t be caught dead with him in the same room. Dick’s attention returned to Jason, who looked more than a little irate.

“Jason, I didn’t mean—” Dick began, but Jason stood, brushing loose powder off his black jeans.

“I don’t need your apologies, Dick. I don’t even need your fucking faith. I need your compliance for the next three hours and that’s it. Think you can manage?”

Dick grit his teeth. He didn’t want to think he’d upset Jason, but Jason was being irrational. Jason had come to him, two weeks prior, with a target and a proposition all contingent on Dick’s discretion.

 _‘No other Bats,’_ Jason had warned. _‘Not even Tim or the Demon Brat. And_ especially _not Bruce. In exchange, I’ll keep it clean. But I need a pretty face for this one, and my mug won’t do.’_

If Dick were being honest, he’d agreed out of curiosity and because he’d always jump at the opportunity to have even a smidgen of Jason’s time. And then he’d immediately regretted it. He thought Jason was going to honeypot him, but no, Jason went on and enrolled his alias in Metropolis’s Fashion Week as new talent. Dick didn’t hold a candle to the men he’d seen strutting about, and he knew he wouldn’t before Jason ushered him into the building. But Jason was too stubborn to listen and now here they were, unprepared, coated in glitter and delusion. And that scared Dick. It scared Dick because Jason was never this off base. Jason ran a tight ship, Dick had seen him command his team. So _why the hell_ did he think this would work?

“Yeah,” Dick whispered hoarsely. “I can manage.”

Dick most definitely couldn’t manage. Without the comforting bulk of Jason to cling to (and by the time Jason had shoved him off to go play nice with the other models, Dick was _definitely_ clinging), Dick felt small and inadequate among the behemoths. His lean build and muscles were built from exertion, for strength. He wasn’t sculpted for beauty, not like the men around him, who specifically designed their workouts to procure the most aesthetically appealing results. More than that—Dick was _scarred_. In a sea of white slashes and nicks were even uglier scars, brown swaths that Dick had never felt self-conscious about until this moment.  

Not for the first time, Dick bemoaned, _what was Jason thinking_?

* * *

 

Jason couldn’t stop thinking about Dick. He’d known when he’d chosen this route that he’d have to get closer to the object of his childhood envy and his adult desire than he preferred, but he’d underestimated what a little bronzer could do to an already sculpted face. He’d underestimated the licks of delight he’d receive when Dick reached out to grasp the edge of his shirt as they’d navigated the crowd. He’d underestimated how _distracting_ Dick was.

Nevertheless, he untangled himself from Dick to let Dick loose among the other models so that he could hunt down the Target. And the target wasn’t difficult to track; her trail of Coco Chanel Mademoiselle was thick and sticky on the back of Jason’s throat. He couldn’t muss this up, not in front of Dick. He couldn’t risk the others hearing about a botched mission. Jason had only so many opportunities to prove his prudence to the family while also taking out the competition.  

He followed her scent (literally, had no one ever taught her how to wear perfume?) away from the bustle of bodies and towards a door, almost hidden in paint the same color as the faux wood wall. Makeshift privacy in an open floor plan. As the Target disappeared inside, her bodyguard from earlier stepped out and set his eyes on Jason.

“You the buyer?” The man asked, voice as gruff as his appearance. Broad shoulders, tall build, thick arms. He’d make an absolutely beautiful sound when slammed through the wood of the door. Jason decided to test his theory, and he threw himself into doing just that.

“Goddamn, what do you eat? Bricks?” Jason huffed when a kick to the man’s kidneys resulted in nothing but a small breath.

“Quinoa,” the man grinned, reaching down to pick Jason up and sling him across the floor. Jason caught himself on his shoulder and let himself slide before leaping back to his feet.

“Alright, Quinoa. I’m French Fries. Let’s go.”

Jason was right. The man did make a satisfying sound when he finally slung him through the flimsy wood door. But in the process of getting him there, he’d drawn a crowd. A crowd meant civilians, and besides, now that Jason could see into the room he saw nothing except grounded bodyguard, the Target, and a suitcase sized makeup carry on. Jason zeroed in on the carry on. It either had money or chemical weapons. He erred on the side of chemical weapons and dispatched the Target.

The crowd was growing shouty, and Jason could see security headed his way. He snatched up the case and cursed his father’s name as he shot a grappling hook into the ample rafters of the building. He couldn’t keep lugging around a case without knowing whether or not he could set off a weapon, so he hunkered down on a rafter and gingerly unzipped it.

Thick bundles of cash packed tightly together. Jason cursed and lifted a few bundles. More cash. He dug deeper. Still, just cash. Cash was fine, it was traceable, but this meant the exchange already happened.

Another shout sounded from below, this one familiar. Jason spared a look down and amid increasingly baffled security, Dick was jumping up and down, pointing down at a suitcase handcuffed to a prone underwear model.

Jason grinned dopily. It wasn’t as if Dick could see it from down there anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

“Anyway, so the big guy thought he’d pick on me and that’s when I noticed he had a little extra luggage,” Dick murmured around his chopsticks.

“Chew and swallow, Dick, Christ,” Jason grimaced. “What’d you say to him to get his attention anyway?”

Dick quirked his eyebrows but, to his credit, swallowed his chicken before answering. “I didn’t say anything, Jay. I was the runt, the odd one out. He’s an award-winning model and designer who just wanted a little chemical hell to nix his competition. I was some guy in glitter.”

Rolling his eyes, Jason took a sip of his beer. “You couldn’t be some guy if you tried.”

Dick sat up abruptly, almost disrupting his takeout box and spilling food all over Jason’s couch. Jason flinched. “There! You’re doing it again!”

“Doing what?” Jason snapped, snatching the food away from Dick’s lap. “Protecting the longevity of my furniture?”

“Oh, whatever,” Dick retorted, crossing his arms. “I know you had everything scotch-guarded after I spilled cereal on your ottoman. No, I mean that thing where you dramatically overestimate how attractive I am. Did you not see who you had me up against? I’d almost say it was your plan to have me stick out like a sore thumb, except you keep saying shit like _that_.”

Jason swallowed his bite of Lo Mein. “Shut up. You’re gorgeous and you know. You’ve always known it. I mean, look at you. No shit I knew you’d be an easy in to a Fashion Week.” He took another bite, almost missing Dick’s widening grin. “What?” Jason snapped after swallowing.

“You think I’m pretty, Jay,” Dick grinned, crawling closer. Jason frowned and kicked at him. He missed. 

“I didn’t say pretty,” Jason said defensively, moving the takeout boxes to the floor since Dick was apparently hellbent on knocking them over (and Jason had NOT gotten the carpet scotch-guarded yet, it was a work in progress.)

When he looked back up, Dick was hovering over him, nose almost touching Jason’s nose.

“I think you’re pretty too,” Dick murmured, with his stupid grin and his stupid long eyelashes.

“Don’t say shit you don’t mean,” Jason shot back. Dick pressed his forehead against Jason’s. Jason swallowed hard. He’d faced crowbars, Lazarus pits, mobsters, Talia al Ghul, abandonment, bloodlust and yet, Dick Grayson draped over him like there was no where he’d rather be was easily the most terrifying experience in memory. “Dick, I’m serious,” Jason whispered.

“Yeah? So am I, Little Wing,” Dick offered back.  

And then Dick’s lips were on Jason’s lips and Jason short circuited for what could have been minutes until he remembered—

“Don’t call me that, you ass!”


End file.
